Casca 36: The Minuteman

by Tony Roberts

  He was near exhaustion. He hadn’t slept for a day. The wound was throbbing. His legs felt like they had been cut off then stuck back on half-heartedly. Finally he rolled back onto his front and painfully got to his feet, picking up his musket.

  Before him stood the Brooklyn Heights, an area of defenses that included a number of forts and barricades. Men were streaming towards them through the fields and scrubland, and the nearest fort could be seen on a small hill. Thankfully Casca trudged off after them and after ten minutes of dragging his lower part of his body that was caked in mud and weighing almost twice as much with the water and muck stuck to it, reached the first defensive line.

  Three guards waved him on encouragingly. “Over here, bud! You look tuckered out,” one of them exclaimed. “You the last?”

  Aye,” Casca managed to pant. “I was with Lord Stirling at Cortelyou House.”

  “Were you by God? Only about ten of you got away! But we’re grateful for what you did – you saved the lives of the rest of them!”

  “Th-they all got back?”

  The guards nodded. “Most of ‘em. A couple drowned, but I’m surprised more didn’t. Go report to General Washington.”

  “He’s here?” Casca asked, surprised.

  “Over there, in Cobble Hill Fort. He watched the fight at Cortelyou House through his eyeglass.”

  Casca nodded and got a couple of backslaps as he went. Grinning despite the pain, he gulped down a few more lungfuls of air and could now almost walk upright. The wound was healing and although still very uncomfortable, the pain was bearable. Men were sitting by the trackside, drinking water or simply feeling relief at getting away, and they could talk about their experiences to those who wished to hear about them.

  A few glanced at him curiously as he passed, for he was wearing no unit insignia and wondering who he was and with whom he had been fighting. Two men, sporting the Maryland uniforms, recognized him and hailed him. “Hey! Over here! Glad to see you got away!”

  “Aye, you too,” Casca grinned. “How many others?”

  “A handful,” the Marylander said sadly. “What happened to Lord Stirling?”

  “Last I saw he was tending the wounded, waiting to surrender to a German.”

  “Shame; he’s a great commander,” the man said.

  Casca nodded and waved at the two. He had to see Washington. He pushed past a knot of people blocking the way and came up against the entrance to the fort, built of wood and surrounded by a ten foot high wall. Sentry posts stood above it and the gates were guarded, but open. Casca stepped forward and the two guards crossed their muskets and fixed bayonets across his path. “Who are you, pal?”

  “The name’s Lonnergan, and I’ve come to report to General Washington. I was at Cortelyou House.”

  The guards looked at him with astonishment, then stepped aside. “Wait here, I’ll go tell him,” one said.

  The other looked at him with respect. “Damned hell of a fight, Lonnergan. We all heard it, and the general watched it up there,” he nodded at the highest point of the ramparts.

  “It wasn’t much fun,” Casca admitted wearily. “But at least it bought time for the others to get away.”

  The first guard returned with an officer. The officer waved Casca through to accompany him. Casca followed him through the courtyard, and then into one of the buildings dotted around the compound. Seated behind a roughly cut desk was General Washington.

  “Why are you not wearing a captain’s colors, Lonnergan?” he asked.

  “I was demoted, general. General Putnam’s orders.”

  “Putnam’s a fool,” Washington grunted. “You’re re-instated. I saw you in the battle. Damned fine performance. Pity it cost so many brave men’s lives.”

  “We did what we had to do, sir. Lord Stirling was exemplary.”

  “Yes. I have no doubt congress will agree on a suitable reward. But now to you. What do I do with you, Captain? Your Minuteman unit is clearly not for you, given your demotion. I would very much like to have you in my unit, as a fully-fledged Continental Army officer. I can arrange for your transfer. What say you?”

  “Do I get a nice clean uniform, general?”

  “Absolutely; I don’t want my officers looking like hoboes.”

  Casca chuckled. “Then I accept gladly.”

  Washington stood up and extended his hand. Casca shook it. Once again he was a captain. It had been one hell of a day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A nice clean uniform indeed. Casca admired himself in the mirror in the hall of the mansion in New York that the army had appropriated from the loyalist who had been thrown into prison for his sympathies. Blue jacket over a white tunic and breeches, long black boots. An officer’s epaulettes and a three pointed black hat. The sword hung from a scabbard on his left side and the buttons gleamed in the candlelight after their cleaning. He may be seventeen centuries old but he was still a damned handsome fellow.

  The debacle of Gowanus Heights had been a week before and Washington had withdrawn from Brooklyn across the water to Manhattan, leaving the British masters of Long Island. Now that it was certain Howe would try to land somewhere along the other side of the waters separating Long Island from the opposite shore, men had been posted all along the shores of Manhattan and the East River at places such as Kingsbridge and Westchester County.

  Washington had been criticized along with the rest of the generals over the mess, and the army was grumbling about their ability to lead them to victory. Casca agreed that someone had made a major blunder at leaving the Gowanus undefended where Howe had outflanked the men of Lord Stirling. It was only the sacrifice of the Marylanders that had prevented fifteen hundred men being caught up in a pincer movement and taken prisoner. The evacuation of Long Island had, by contrast, gone well. But the morale of the army was low and the militiamen were leaving in droves, returning to their homes in the belief it wouldn’t be long before the British prevailed.

  Casca wasn’t sure. The performance of the drilled men such as the Marylanders had been impressive, and their ability to stand up to the professionals of Howe had made the Eternal Mercenary think that if they were all trained they could inflict a defeat on the British. But they needed better trained men and not irregulars prone to sneaking off once the tide of war turned against them.

  Casca had used the few days he had been in New York to good effect. He’d sent a letter to Katherine Maplin in Philadelphia, telling her what he had learned. Maybe she had contacts in Halifax, or her fellow what’s-his-name knew of someone. Whatever, he could hardly go off to Halifax at the moment and whisk Rose away to her mother.

  The unit he was to be assigned to had also been a problem, since a captain’s post was not currently available. Washington had solved the problem by making Casca his captain of engineers. Casca’s orders were to sound out places to defend and have new redoubts built wherever it was likely they were needed.

  He’d spent the last two days in rougher ‘outdoor’ clothes scouting around Manhattan and Haarlem, looking for places to construct lines of defense. Brooklyn. Haarlem. He grinned. The stamp of the Dutch was still there, despite the British having taken New Amsterdam from them in the last century and renaming the city New York. Haarlem was unchanged in name, but Breukelen, named after a town in Holland, had been Anglicized to Brooklyn.

  One pleasing development had occurred while he had been checking out the terrain. He had encountered quite a few units, although not those under Putnam who was stationed in New York City itself. One of the militia units still with most of its complement had been posted in the north of Manhattan and to Casca’s delight he found his old friend Robert Groves from Massachusetts. They had shared old stories and Groves had been properly impressed with Casca’s new rank.

  Amongst the gossip Groves had given Casca an interesting piece of news. James Lash had been unearthed as a Tory spy but had fled before the lynching mob had gotten to him. Casca nodded. It hadn’t been a surprising development, and Casc
a’d had his suspicions. It just confirmed what he had suspected. Lash had used the cover of being a rabid patriot to hide his real allegiance.

  Groves told Casca that Elaine was well and Casca passed on his best. Perhaps when all the fighting had finished he would call on Groves and Elaine again. Once more Casca asked for the help of Pete Courtney and got it, and the two toured Haarlem and made notes as to where the defenses should be erected.

  The report done, Casca had once more gone back to his barracks in the city. He was impatient for the action to resume; standing in front of mirrors admiring his uniform was all very well but he was best when the fighting started. And that was another thing he wanted to bring up with Washington. What to do once the fighting did resume. He had no intention of sitting on horseback or standing alongside the other officers trying to outdo one another with an array of cockades, feathers or braid on their neatly-pressed uniforms. He wanted to get in amongst the soldiers and fight.

  He slapped his starched white breeches in irritation. The more he saw his reflection he more he didn’t like what he saw. The ribbon in his hair tying it neatly at the nape of his neck. The smart dress. The shiny boots. Damn it, I thought this revolution was meant to put an end to all this bullshit. He pulled a distasteful expression and abruptly turned away from the mirror. There was a knock on the door and Casca opened it, wondering who the hell it was. A smartly uniformed young soldier stood there to attention and snapped a parade ground salute at him. Headquarters messenger, Casca thought to himself. He could tell them anywhere.

  “Captain Lonnergan sir?”

  “Yes, kid.” Christ, the boy looked no older than fifteen. Had he started shaving yet? The young soldier passed him a sealed envelope. Casca broke it open hastily and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  Casca was surprised to see it was a summons direct to General Washington’s quarters. Wondering what in the name of hell it was for, he went with some trepidation. The message brought to him was very peremptory in tone and since he was not due to complete his findings on the defenses on the White Plains for a couple more days, he could only assume his ass was in a sling for some unknown reason. The old memories of being sent for by the Persian King Shapur prior to his arrest and subsequent burning resurfaced. Angrily, almost, he shook them from his mind. Those days were gone. People were more civilized these days. At least they’d finished burning people these days. Not that the Americans would do such a thing – they were fighting for greater freedom in their lives; he would be merely cashiered.

  But what in the name of God would he be guilty of? He walked alongside the messenger berating himself silently. Of course he was guilty of nothing! It was just his bad memories playing tricks in his mind.

  The ornate building procured by Washington and the army loomed menacingly in front of him in the sunlight. Guards on duty outside saluted with their arms and then resumed their positions once Casca had passed them. “Any idea why I’m being called, son?” Casca asked the youthful messenger.

  “No, sir. Just that the general wanted to see you immediately.”

  That was all the messenger was going to tell Casca, so he had to wait until he’d gone through a succession of carpeted corridors, passed armed guards and been checked and passed by a couple of adjutants that he was permitted to enter the chamber where Washington was sat. Should I bow three times? Casca asked himself scathingly.

  Washington stood up from his desk and smiled as he caught sight of his captain. “Ah, Lonnergan, here you are. You didn’t tell me you knew Mrs. Maplin.”

  Casca hesitated in surprise, then looked to his left where a woman had risen from her chair and greeted him with a knowing smile. Katherine. “Ma’am,” he bowed, gathering his wits.

  “Oh, Captain,” Katherine replied testily, “would it be too much to ask you to call me Katherine?”

  “No,” Casca grinned, “it wouldn’t be at all – Katherine,” he ended with emphasis on her name.

  Katherine smiled back. “You seem to be moving in important circles, Captain,” she said. “Anyone who personally knows the General here can count themselves as being fortunate.”

  “Case, please, Katherine.” Casca took her proffered hand and kissed it, his eyes twinkling. If not for the fact he had been seeing her daughter, Casca had a good mind to try it on with her. Katherine may be in her forties, but she still had a great complexion and a figure women ten years younger would die for. And Casca thought he really liked her manner and attitude.

  “Very well, Case,” she said, again with emphasis on the name. She thought the scarred man quite a dish, and wondered if the way he was looking at her indicated interest. If so she would have to be careful. She’d worked hard at recovering from the separation from Ebenezer, and thanks to James Lowe she’d elevated herself up into high society in Philadelphia. A liaison with anyone would ruin all that. “Thank you for your letter, by the way. That is why I’m here.”

  “It did occur to me. So what do you hope to do?”

  Katherine turned to George Washington who had listened to their conversation with growing impatience. This was his office and he was the senior officer here; his captain ought to know better. “George – the general to you – and I know each other from Philadelphia.”

  “Indeed,” Washington said, standing up. “Your dinners are legendary. How is Mr. Lowe, by the way?”

  “James is very well thank you. He sends his compliments.” She turned back to Casca. “George has agreed to help in getting my daughter from Halifax. He’s very gallant.”

  Washington colored slightly and tried to cover it up by pouring himself a glass of water from a carafe, but Casca had seen the slight stain on his cheeks. He smothered a grin. Trouble lay that way if he showed he’d noticed. “Katherine is too kind,” Washington said. “I have however denied her request that you go to rescue her.” He held up a hand as Casca opened his mouth. “Please, Captain. You’re too valuable here, and to be honest, getting you to Halifax would be a logistical nightmare. I am aware of the existence of a few patriots there, thanks to my position as commander-in-chief of the American armed forces, and will use my contacts to alert them to the job in hand. But what I need from you is information about Ebenezer Maplin and this Sir Richard Eley. Is he as roguish as it would seem?”

  “And some,” Casca growled, and proceeded to give the general and Katherine a brief run-down of Sir Richard’s role in events since before the outbreak of revolt. He ended with the news Sir Richard was amongst the British forces on Long Island.

  The other two sat down and exchanged looks. Washington drew in a deep breath. “So Ebenezer Maplin is probably still in Halifax – and will only move here if New York is taken by the British. This Sir Richard needs watching. He may well wish to take vengeance in the event of Rose being taken by our men. It would seem he is capable of any type of action.”

  “What the British would describe as being a cad,” Katherine said dryly. “My estranged husband moves in dirty waters indeed.”

  “So how do you propose to rescue Rose from Halifax, sir? Do we know anything about the place?” Casca was concerned that others were to rescue her and not him.

  Washington tapped the table lightly. “I have contacts, Captain, do not worry. There are loyalists present in patriot held regions and vice versa. Rest assured we have agents in Halifax and they will seek her out and formulate a rescue plan. With the British army here there won’t be too many left to garrison Nova Scotia. It is pro-British, true, but determined men and luck will see us triumphant.”

  Casca thought about objecting but he could see Washington’s mind was made up, and Katherine seemed happy enough with the plans. Instead he addressed Katherine. “Are you staying here in New York for some time?”

  “Oh no, Case,” she smiled, “I came visiting George here as we know each other and I needed his – weight behind my request to see my daughter rescued. I shall return to James and Philadelphia in a couple of days’ time. From what George tells me the British are planning to atta
ck soon, and I have no intention of being here if and when that happens!”

  Casca looked at the general. “Any idea when they will, sir?”

  Washington shook his head. “Nothing is coming out of Long Island at the moment; they will come, but when and where is up to Howe to decide. I can only wait.”

  Katherine stood up and approached Casca. “In the meantime I shall be dined by George. I would like you to attend the next dinner and sit next to me, Case. I want to know more about you. I insist,” she said forcefully, her eyes flashing as Casca went to make some excuse.

  Casca looked into her eyes and knew he couldn’t object. Cursing under his breath he bowed. “I’d be honored to,” he smiled. He glanced at Washington whose expression matched how Casca felt. Oh good, it’ll be a great time he thought sourly.

  “If you have no objections, George,” Katherine added, smiling winningly at Washington.

  “Of course not,” Washington gave her a wide smile.

  Lying bastard, Casca mused. He kissed Katherine’s hand and saluted Washington. “I’ll return to my quarters and dress for dinner. What time and where, sir?”

  “Eight,” Washington said curtly. “I shall send for you.”

  “Thank you sir. Katherine,” he bowed again and left, puffing out his cheeks. He never felt entirely comfortable around dinner with the so-called upper echelons of society, and this would be no different. There was an etiquette to follow and it was alien to his way of thinking. As he trudged back through the streets he recalled the times he’d been at the top or very close to the top of society. He’d never liked being polite to those who affected the airs and graces of high rank, and he’d often thought they needed a kick up the ass. This had gotten him in trouble plenty of times before. All it needed was some up-his-own-ass character making fun at Casca’s expense and one punch later he’d be busted, just as badly as the sonofabitch’s jaw.